


Solo

by Princess of Geeks (Princess)



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Masturbation, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-25
Updated: 2010-05-25
Packaged: 2017-10-12 00:05:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess/pseuds/Princess%20of%20Geeks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This might possibly work on its own, sorta, as an AU sequel to Season 6 'Abyss,' but what it really is, is an homage and a tag to an amazing novel-length gen fic, rated R for violence, an AU from "Abyss". Jack and Kanan are not separated, and Rydra's novel tells the story of how they came to accept each other. My story is a kind of a porn ficlet set in that unbelievably wonderful world. I can't recommend that novel highly enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solo

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Walked Right Out of the Machinery](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/1511) by Rydra Wong. 



  
A luxury, after the near-miss, was the simple act of walking -- planting the soles of the feet in loose gravel, levering the body up the steep, smooth-pebbled bank of the clear rushing stream on a planet that Kanan had used decades since for an arms cache, and that the SGC had never mapped at all -- a corner of the galaxy so off the beaten path that no Goa'uld had ever bothered to colonize it.

It was a kind of vacation.  
  
They needed it. They needed downtime to finish healing. The trance on Prometheus had brought them back from the brink of death, but a couple of stress-free weeks would restore their health fully and put the finishing touches on the blending. So Kanan had judged, and so had Jack been entirely willing to concur, with the decision, and the destination, both.

So, you tell me, there's fishing there?

Yes, there are abundant edible fish in the streams of the western continent of this planet.

Sweet.

Kanan had earlier deduced that Thoran would tangibly express the Tok'ra's gratitude for the Prometheus mission with further credits, and he had also deduced the alias and the market place that were most likely for finding them. And he had been right. With the improvements to the hyperdrive that those credits bought, it would be possible to reach their planet of refuge in something under a day. Kanan had grunted his approval of the upgrade, after modifying the trays and then installing the two extra, strangely shaped crystals. The black market in the Venturi system reliably traded in such tech, but the design was unknown to the Tau'ri and most of the Jaffa, and in fact would have had Carter ... coming in her fatigues.

Yeah, so, when are we gonna share this stuff with Hammond, eh? Jack had demanded, and Kanan had said, primly, When the time is right.

Their purchase made, Jack had hung back, to let him work, and it was a kind of work he had learned Kanan enjoyed -- precision soldering, tinkering, adapting and modifying systems, using his hands. Jack at first passed the time by thinking fairly idly of Carter and her endless tweakings of all the al kesh's systems. Thinking what she would have made of this particular upgrade. Then he realized Kanan probably wouldn't get a damn thing out of that, would find it distracting and not pleasant while he was concentrating on shaving just the right amount of metal from just exactly the right surfaces of the crystal trays, and so Jack switched to reprising _Aida_ in his head -- the old reissued recording he had owned, before. The live one, with Callas, from La Scala.

It didn't seem weird anymore, Kanan smiling with his mouth, at the beauty that was opera.

So they'd -- the snake had -- wrangled the hyperdrive improvements, and so they had made it to this refuge, this bolthole. Very different from the first time, the other time they had spent on an obscure, off-the-beaten path planet, when they'd been fused but not blended, running, hiding, just exactly like a wounded animal, holing-up to lick wounds that they both had feared would never heal, coping or not coping, as best they could.

This was different. This would be a break, like a vacation.

Under the memories of the rich, twining music, Jack pulled up a vivid image of Minnesota. He built the view from the deck for Kanan -- the trees, the early evening sunlight on the black backs of green waves, the buzz of cicadas.

 _Home,_ came the acknowledgement, tinged with wistfulness.

Home, Jack agreed.

It was about thirteen Earth hours in hyperspace, to get to this particular ass end of the beyond. Like driving from the Springs to Hibbing, Jack thought as Kanan settled himself in the pilot's chair, and then, Jack let himself sleep.

When they arrived and dropped in, and cloaked, and scanned, the planet was still uninhabited, still safe, as far as their careful examination could tell. Kanan was always, unfailingly, careful.

Jack could tell they both enjoyed breathing air again -- or maybe the snake enjoyed him enjoying it. Hard to say. The air was soft and humid and just a little chilly, the sky was more teal than blue, but still. It was nice. From space, Kanan had located the cave that he'd used before, up in the nearby hills, in country too steep and broken for a landing. In a few days -- there was no schedule -- they could hike up there, explore underground, check on the weapons cache. Kanan enjoyed the sky and the air, but he also enjoyed the safety, the coolness, of the natural caves on this planet.

Whatever floats your boat, Skippy, Jack said, and then had to explain the figure of speech.

Definitely a vacation.

Day one, Jack did the walking, did the touching of the twigs and leaf tips, the inhaling of the grassy scents; the crouching, watching, appreciative, by a stream's edge. And it was he who plunged into the bracing chill of the fast-running stream, when they agreed it was safe, and he who dressed again the familiar, patchless BDUs, and, later, built the little fire, and drowsed over it, sitting on a fallen log, until Kanan directed them back into the safety of the al kesh for the night. Because you never knew.

They'd put in a bunk in the cargo hold, with the Venturi credits, more for Jack's mental comfort than anything else, because he'd perfected the art of sleeping while Kanan did stuff -- did whatever he did when Jack was asleep. It was not an issue any more, that Kanan could take care of his own business, using the body, without the need to check in first as Jack slept. Jack felt no need to continue his insistence that Kanan should stay still and wait until Jack could fully participate. That had blown away on the wave of decompression when they'd attempted to board Prometheus. Or maybe it had vanished earlier, when a hatak strike had blown the generator at the Alpha site, and a whole lot of lives with it -- human, Tok'ra, Jaffa.

It didn't matter. In fact a lot of stuff Jack had dug in his heels about before, just didn't matter now. And he was very grateful that Kanan, for his part, let all that past conflict drop. Never rehashed, with whining or blaming, those early days, the time just after the SGC teams had caught them. The trance on Prometheus had, indeed, smoothed over a lot of things. Kanan had been right about that too. Better boundaries, now, and more true ease when those boundaries were lowered. Definitely making the best of things. Both of them.

Sleep, Kanan urged, that first night on the new planet. Lie down and sleep, as you used to. I have much to think about while you do.

And Jack, sunbaked and well-exercised and the closest thing to happy he'd been in a while, had complied. It had been a long time since he had felt ready to do that -- to sleep, while Kanan was there. Certainly he had not been ready when he first arrived at the Alpha site. And certainly not before. He'd expended a bunch of energy not sleeping, in fact, at the SGC, and on that first planet.

But now, he found he could relax. He took off his jacket and his boots, and stretched out on the comfortable bunk, and then curled on his side.

Thank you, Kanan said, as Jack drifted off. For the opera. Jack smiled.

He woke, hours later, in a state of restlessness, and it took him a minute to identify that it was because of the dreams he'd been having -- those kinds of dreams. The kind that were embarrassing when you had company at close quarters. He didn't want to hang on to them, beyond a vague impression of dark gold hair and intense eyes. Shallan, maybe? Who knew. And Jack didn't really want any more concrete memories of Shallan than he could let go of on his own, no thank you to the total recall he knew Skippy was capable of. But of more immediate, and embarrassing, concern was the hard-on that the dreams had either sparked or been the result of.

He sighed, and rolled to his back and pressed the heel of his hand against it through his pants.

Crap, he thought.

And why do you reject this? Real query, real puzzlement.

Because, hello, private sort of entertainment? Not for an audience?

Ah, Kanan returned, and before it was masked by their new expertise in polarized thoughts, Jack caught the distinct sense of regret.

I guess you're used to living vicariously through the host's sex life, huh. Well I gotta tell you, Skippy, mine's gonna disappoint you big time.

You do not wish to discuss this.

News flash, huh?

It takes time, this level of comfort. This level of intimacy.

And again, that fleeting sense of regret, and this time also a distinct picture, receding almost before Jack could grasp it, of something he'd seen Skippy obsess with more than once: A vivid picture of Jack's hands. Just that.

Skippy apparently had a thing about them.

Not a thing. Why do you persist in denigrating my emotional responses? It is true that you were strangely and unexpectedly supportive regarding my parting with Shallan. Yet in every other case....

Okay, 'too much information' territory. Let me up.

Jack got up, and paced the cargo hold. After a little while of that, he punched the code to exit into the cockpit, where he checked the heads-up display, the solar cells, the long range and short range scanners. It was still dark on their planet.

They both knew it was busy work, but Kanan was quiet, seeming almost embarrassed too. Uncertain.

Walking around with a hard-on was uncomfortable, but eventually it went down, as Jack persistently focused on other things.

But Jesus, it had been a while.

He went back to the bunk, and lay back down and put his hands behind his head. Don't think of a pink elephant.

There is no reason to withhold this from yourself, Kanan felt obliged to point out. It is normal and natural and pleasurable. Pleasure is not wrong. We all get so few chances for it. Life is very uncertain, and the cause is always the priority.

Jack curled up, and sat, abruptly. He rose from the bunk and walked off again. He checked the chronometer. Dawn soon, local time. He hit the controls and walked outdoors into gray.

The "no" was implied, and obvious.

Two days went by. Jack was amusing himself tying flies, fishing, hiking, eating, collecting leaves and mentally categorizing them in Earth taxonomy, and comparing notes with Kanan using whatever botany terminology he'd picked up on a thousand worlds. They idly planned to check on the cave but they both admitted to enjoying the stream. Besides a thing about Jack's hands, Skippy, like all the Tok'ra, apparently, had a thing about water.

Definitely like a vacation.

And definitely he -- they -- were healing, because both those mornings he woke from vivid sensual dreams with a hard-on. He could feel Kanan not talking about it. Resolutely vowing to ignore it. Because Jack had drawn a line.

The third night, Kanan invited again, wordlessly, that Jack lie down and sleep indoors, assuming Jack's agreement with their pattern thus far on this world, of the host sleeping at night, as humans did, in the bunk designed for his comfort.

I'm good, Jack said. I'll sleep, sure, but you can do whatever.

A thought, quickly smothered. Not quick enough, though. That picture again. His own hands. Jack sighed.

I meant anything in terms of vacation activities on the planet, Skippy! Outdoors! Not... that.

No! I did not mean-- You know I would not; not without permission.

Counting on that.

Jack tilted his head back against the tree trunk he was leaning against at the time, sitting by the stream again, as dusk deepened, and invited Skippy to take over.

And so Jack awoke at dawn, and when he did, he was looking at the view from atop a hill some distance from where they had landed, in the opposite direction from the caves. He was sweaty, and his legs had that tingling buzz that meant long, measured exertion. And he had no hard-on. For which he was grateful. He linked his fingers and stretched his arms over his head, bent back, then exhaled and stood as straight and tall as he could, and put his hands on his hips.

Nice view, he said. How long did you hike?

Just over one of your hours.

Great. Take us back, whenever. You do the walking, if you want.

But what Kanan wanted was to linger on the hilltop, which was a gentle, roundtopped rise, grassy and open to the sky. Jack found the water bottle, and drank, still waking up and stretching, and Jack felt the snake's sincere, peaceful pleasure in the wide view, the glimpse of the ocean, the white puffy clouds and the teal sky. It was another hour before, by mutual agreement, Jack ceded control and Kanan headed back. And then Jack, acquiescent, felt the snake's simple, animal pleasure in stripping, and wading into the clear stream. Feeling the cold water on hot skin, and the pleasant exertion of swimming, and letting the current carry them downstream until he dug his heels into the round deep gravel and stood up, and walked back upstream, waist deep, against the water's gentle resistance, to do it again, and again, pushing against the water's current, like a child playing. The stream was chill, the air was warm, the sun was white and high.

Kanan paused within sight of the al kesh, standing with the water swirling around Jack's knees, to reach back with careful fingers and probe the scar left by the 9 mill. It had been wielded fairly ineffectively by the NID minion.

You would have killed, had it been you shooting.

Well; do what you're good at, Jack quipped.

The scar from the kidney shot was quarter-sized, the muscles tight around it. But they were whole. They were healed.

It was a good day.

Jack slept in his bunk again that night. He might have been dreaming, he might not have, but he woke in sudden clarity, lying on his back, knowing it was dawn. Knowing he had a hard-on again.

He closed his eyes. He breathed once, in and out. He reached down, and unfastened his pants. He paused, and smiled, and changed hands. He reached in, a little awkward, and explored the plush head with careful fingertips, writhing a little at the burst of pleasure -- so familiar, so long deferred.

Kanan was holding his breath.

Jack shook his head. There was no way this was going to work for him. He closed his left hand around the shaft, testing its firmness all along its length, marveling a little. It had been so long. And then he pulled his hand up, a gentle stroke, closing his eyes, and cupped the head. Left-handed was awkward. Always would be, for Jack.

You do it.

(Burst of surprise, of deference, of more surprise, of a strangely humble sort of gratitude.) You are sure.

Yes.

You want this.

No, and yes.

No?

Don't go there. Just... You do it. Go ahead.

He could feel Kanan's hesitation, feel his plumbing of Jack's surface motivations, then the careful, wispy touch at something deeper. Checking. Scrupulous. Making very, very sure.

Jack closed his eyes. He couldn't discuss this. All he had was "yes." And the dim sense that if he could give Skippy Callas, there was no reason to withhold this.

Just another form of human ecstasy. Just another benefit of having this particular brand of host.

Humility. Gratitude. Waves of it; ridiculous.

Enough, Jack conveyed. Enough. Just, if you want to, go for it.

The first thing Kanan wanted to do was pull Jack's hand out of his trousers, and touch his hands with his hands. Jack smiled, and tried to stay quiet.

You have no idea, do you? No appreciation of the skill, the beauty there.

Jack shook his head on the inside, and thought about sitting at the back of a movie theater, arms crossed. Quiet.

Each finger, stroking, exploring, first one hand, then the other, touching and being touched, a kind of orgiastic, narcissistic ecstasy over the joints of knuckles, over the web of a thumb, over the strength in each fist, the heft of the bones of the wrist.

Skippy really did have a thing for his hands.

Jack was battling a transient kind of embarrassment, something that flowed and receded in waves, but he was emphatically not fighting the snake. Once it was sure Jack was on board, really on board, it gave in to something Jack had never felt from it before. How it had felt while swimming in the stream was similar. But this was sheer enthusiastic enjoyment, like a kid with the perfect and long-desired Christmas toy.

After the snake had had his fill of touching hands to hands, exploring fingers and thumbs, he put palms against collar bones and stroked, in parallel, slowly down, exploring each millimeter, each sensation at each differing patch of skin. Each changing sensation of skin against skin. Letting fingertips drag. Savoring.

Jack felt his knowing smile when he discovered how sensitive the nipples were.

Jack was grateful he didn't want to talk about it. Compare notes from the past, as it were.

But Skippy took his sweet time, really enjoying himself. Jack would have been getting down to business long since.

You have had fifty years, nearly, to learn yourself. Of course you can, how do you put it, cut to the chase.

Don't mind me, Jack laughed. Have it your way.

It was a careful exploration, all the skin within reach on the front, as Jack lay on his back, until finally Skippy rested his right hand in an easy curve around the balls, and set up a slow careful rhythm with the left hand, pausing every few strokes to touch the head to explore the intense burst of nerve endings there.

Huh. Apparently Jack was the first circumcised host Skippy'd ever had. Jack found himself insisting that the meaning of all that wasn't something to explore now. And no, he remembered nothing of how painful it must have been. Save it for later. Find the National Geo article equivalent about it, filed somewhere in Jack's head, on your own dime.

Mercifully, Skippy was willing to skip the anthropology and be distracted, involved, by the matter at hand. So to speak.

Jack was distracted too. It all blurred, in a way that was a little disconcerting, a little too reminiscent, for a second, of the overwhelming first encounter he'd had with Kanan's personality before he was ready -- overwhelming and bright and too warm, too close.

He experienced the climax in a white explosion, and he came-to with his face turned to the side, with Skippy quiet, his pleasure banked, his gratitude at full. His left hand was cupped over Jack's dick. Jack had a sense that this would become, for Skippy, some sort of ... treasured memory.

I will not ask you for this, the snake said, softly. It's something that should be given, when you wish.

Jack sighed, and Kanan let him -- he felt his chest expand, felt them take that breath together. Of one accord.

Jack raised a lazy hand -- his right, of course, which was the dry one -- to rub his face. He left his other hand where Skippy had put it. He might have dozed, just for a moment.

Kanan liked the cream, too, liked to touch it with slow fingers until it cooled on Jack's stomach, threatening to get sticky, in the line of soft hair that ran from navel to groin.

The idea of the stream, cool and refreshing. Dawn was just breaking outside.

No one to see, no one to watch. They were safe here.

Hey, Skippy. I'll race ya, Jack said, and they got up, smiling, and headed for the water.


End file.
